


(Not) Sponsored by Adidas

by vaeltaa



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexting, Wet & Messy, tracksuit game strong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-17 22:04:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13668210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaeltaa/pseuds/vaeltaa
Summary: Armie’s tracksuit game is too strong for Timothée Chalamet when he wears it to a black-tie event and sexts him the entire night from across the room like a predatory stripey animal, driving him slowly out of his mind.





	(Not) Sponsored by Adidas

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing, this is fiction.

Armie hates going to these things. Black tie and white tablecloths as stiff as the smiles and boring conversations. He only agreed to this one because it was a charity thing and an open bar.

  
He’s lounged in a silk-coated chair, listening to the first of many speeches followed by polite applause. He swirls the ice cubes in his glass lightly.

  
That was a lie, he only agreed to this one because it was in New York City and Timmy said he was going to attend. He’d sounded happy on the phone, asked for a when and a where and Armie could tell he was smiling, grinning at the prospect of being together again and Armie was hard instantly.

  
Armie pulls out his phone.

 _9:04 p.m._  
What the fuck, T

 _9:04 p.m._  
You’re four minutes late.

  
_9:05 p.m._  
Sorry!! Traffic’s fucked I’m omw

 _9:09 p.m._  
I’m already 3 drinks ahead of you

 _9:11 p.m._  
Scratch that, 4 drinks

 _9:12 p.m._  
Canapés suck, bring snacks

  
_9:13 p.m._  
I’m inside, where r u?

  
_9:14 p.m._  
Thank fuck. I’ll find you.

 

Timmy follows the sound of thumping, generic music and loud partygoers into a large, luxuriously decorated banquet hall. The walls are draped in white fabric – very Old Hollywood. He reads Armie’s latest text and smiles at the bright screen. He hovers awkwardly by the large doors as guests make their way past. He scans the room, but it’s packed and dimly lit. There was no way he’d find Armie without at least getting lost somewhere in there.

  
He hears his name, a woman’s voice he doesn’t recognize, and she introduces herself as a founder of something or other. Timmy smiles and nods politely but doesn’t really listen. He discreetly thumbs at his phone.

 

 _9:20 p.m._  
Trapped

  
_9:21 p.m._  
Have you learned nothing

 _9:21 p.m._  
I see you

 _9:22 p.m._  
Fuck me you are a sight for sore eyes

 

Another guest has joined in on the conversation, the woman’s husband and chairman of something or other. He glances down at his vibrating phone, and a swarm of horny butterflies crash land in the bottom of his gut.

 

 _9:24 p.m._  
SO S

  
_9:24 p.m._  
12 o’clock dude

 

Timmy peeks at his vibrating phone again before looking to find his twelve o’clock and finally spots Armie directly across the hall from him, behind a row of fancy long dinner tables.

  
“Sherry and I are just so happy you could make it this evening,” the chairman of something or other drones on. Timmy stares through him, meeting Armie’s eyes across the hall and Timmy can’t stifle the laugh that bubbles in his chest at the sight.

  
Mr. Chairman looks puzzled. “Oh, sorry, what were you saying?” Timmy excuses himself quickly, urging the man to continue. He deftly sends off another text as the couple tells him about their stock investments.

  
He watches Armie read it, the glow from his phone lighting up his face from across the room.

 

 _9:26 p.m._  
Tracksuit???

  
_9:26 p.m._  
Duh

 _9:27 p.m._  
I’m gonna wear it when I fuck your face tonight

 _9:27 p.m._  
I want your pretty mouth on this 100% polyester tricot

 

Timmy has one ear to the conversation between Mr. and Mrs Chairman, praying the subdued lighting and long candlelight shadows are sufficiently hiding his reddening face.

  
“I’m sorry, guys,” Timmy croaks out in a convenient pause in the couple’s banter. “I should meet my friend.” Mr. and Mrs Chairman say their thank you’s and Timmy glides past them into the crowd. Armie slips out of his view.

  
Timmy brings up his phone, tapping a reply.

 

 _9:30 p.m._  
You’re sick. I’m getting a drink

 

Timmy reaches the bar and the bartender hands him a glass of champagne, quickly dismissing any preferences he might have had. He takes a big gulp and his phone vibrates again. The room bursts into applause as another speech ends.

 _9:32 p.m._  
Your ass looks good in those pants

 _9:32 p.m._  
Are they velvet? Dude

 _9:33 p.m._  
Too fancy for me. Prefer you naked.

 

Timmy finishes his champagne, scanning the room again for white stripes and tall, blonde tufts of hair but coming up short. He looks at his phone before putting it away.

  
The champagne mixes well with the warmth in his stomach, and he nods the bartender over, turning his back to the crowd and where he assumed Armie was watching him from. He smiles at the tall and dark bartender, orders a Black Russian and runs a hand through his too-long curls.

  
His pocket vibrates.

  
_9:34 p.m._  
You tryin to make me jealous?

 

Timmy takes his drink, turns around and leans on the bar. He ignores the vibration in his pocket, tasting the dark liquid in his glass. He swallows and licks his bottom lip, biting on it while listening to the current speech giver. His phone vibrates again.

 

 _9:35 p.m._  
I could have you on your knees right here

 _9:35 p.m._  
Wanna fuck your face in front of all these upper east side socialites

 _9:36 p.m._  
Take another sip if youre hard, Timmy boy

 

Timmy’s courage falters and his curiosity wins out and he looks at his phone, finally. He reads the words on the screen and is officially hard as a rock in his dark blue, velvet trousers. Fuck.

He takes another sip.

 

 _9:37 p.m._  
I hate you

 _9:37 p.m._  
<3

 

Drink and phone in hand, and with his brown jacket placed strategically over his arm and crotch, Timmy ventures into the sea of well-dressed people. The speeches have subsided, and the generic, instrumental house music has returned. The music and alcohol and arousal all thumping in tune with the carotid artery in his neck, and he unbuttons the top buttons of his green corduroy shirt. He spots a producer he recognizes by the opulent dinner tables and he goes over, instantly recognized by the aging man.

  
The producer is in the middle of congratulating him on his Academy Award nomination when Timmy's pocket vibrates again, a feature that was beginning to become troublesome.

  
_9:45 p.m._  
First the bartender and now that Scorsese wannabe? Slut

 

The producer is telling a story about working with Meryl Streep and Timmy happily recounts recently meeting the famous actress, and his phone goes off again.

  
_9:48 p.m._  
Are you telling him about how fucking great you are at at sucking dick?

 _9:48 p.m._  
How hot you look on your knees, your pink lips wet and shiny

 

The music dies down and the crow applauds as another round of speeches begins. Timmy fishes his phone out from his pocket again. "Excuse me, Mr. Marshall," he says, making a move to leave. "I need to go find my seat."

  
He walks toward the far wall of the banquet hall and scans the room from the shadows. Another text comes in.

 

 _9:55 p.m._  
Far right table

 

Timmy looks to his right, and sure enough - black and white track suit, drink and cigarette in hand. Timmy makes his way over and sits in the empty seat next to Armie, who doesn't look at him.

  
A giant screen is playing some sort of tribute and no one really pays it any mind, the room still filled with the loud buzz of conversation and clanging drink glasses.

  
Timmy leans into Armie and tugs at his tracksuit sleeve. "You're insane," he whispers. Armie finally turns to look at him, taking a long drag of his cigarette.

  
He looks at Timmy with a dark, inscrutable look in his eyes, the scruff on his face giving his jawline an even more defined sharpness. Timmy knew that look, the horny butterfly swarm in his stomach knew that look and if he wasn't already sitting down he knew his legs would have turned into jell-o. With the slightest hint of a smirk, Armie turns his attention back to the video tribute that was still playing.

  
With one swift move, Armie stubs his cigarette out in a flower decoration and brings his hand down to rest on Timmy's upper thigh, heavy and large and possessive.

  
Timmy swallows hard, every ounce of self-control in him focused on keeping his face neutral, surrounded by party guests of varying degrees of fame and wealth on every corner. His self-control fails for a brief moment as his eyes drop to Armie's crotch, muscular thighs spread confidently on the silk chair and the black polyester not doing much to conceal his manhood. He feels Armie's eyes on him and he looks toward the end credits playing on the screen and then back to Armie again - the bastard was smiling.

  
Still smiling, Armie puts his other hand into his tracksuit pocket and keeps it there for just a little bit too long, before pulling out his phone, lighting up the screen and tapping away.

  
Timmy's phone vibrates, and he stares inexplicably at Armie who has resumed ignoring him. Timmy looks around to make sure no one was watching their incredibly rude behavior and takes his phone out.

 _10:19 p.m._  
I'm going commando tongith just for you

 _10:20 p.m._  
Easy access

 _10:20 p.m._  
First one to leave is a desperate loser

 

Timmy inhales, then exhales two times and the generic music returns to thump along to his drumming pulse. He imagines the fabric of the loose tracksuit trousers roughly grinding up against his face, cheeks, lips and mouthing at the contours of Armie's generous, rock-hard length underneath and he can't fucking take it anymore.

  
He stands up, a desperate loser, with his jacket draped over his arm and covering his crotch.

 

***

 

Armie's hotel room is fucking fancy, which makes his huge, tracksuit clad shape stand out even more against the classy wallpaper and lion's foot couch. Timmy's already on his knees, down to just his white t-shirt. Armie has lit another cigarette and stares down at Timmy while holding it nonchalantly in between his thumb and index finger.

  
"Good, Timmy," he mutters almost to himself as if inspecting Timmy's obedience skills. "'S' good." He's half-slurring words now, in a deep, throatier than usual voice and Timmy this is close to rubbing his ass on the lush carpet underneath him like a dog in heat.

  
"Just," Armie continues. "One... more thing." He digs a long, black belt out of his duffel bag by his bed and Timmy's mouth drops open as he pictures all the ways Armie could possibly think to use the belt on him.

  
Armie walks behind him, bend down and grabs his arms and brings them together behind his back, wrapping the belt around his arms and wrists three times before securing the belt in place.

  
"Nhh, _god_ ," he lets out between parted lips, the improvised restraints locking his arms behind him and leaving him even more vulnerable and exposed to Armie's will. Another heady rush of blood engorges his cock in his nice and expensive, velvet trousers.

  
Timmy feels Armie's hand on the back of his head, curling his fingers into his dark hair as the older man walks around and positions his crotch in front of his face.

  
Timmy throws his head back, baring his long neck and looks up at the man towering above him, then back down to his bulging crotch. Armie unzips his tracksuit jacket with one hand, letting it hang partially open to reveal a glimpse of his muscular, broad chest.

  
"I know you been waiting for this, Timmy," Armie teases in that voice like gravel and dark whiskey rivers.

  
He tightens the grip in Timmy's hair and pushes his face into his crotch.

  
Timmy lets his tongue dart in and out of his mouth onto the black polyester fabric, smooth and synthetic against his cheek and he finds Armie's hard length easily with his tongue and lips, his cock nearly standing straight up and straining against the waistband of the tracksuit pants. Mouthing at the fabric and the warmth underneath it, Timmy lets his mouth drag up, then down and back up again, his lips pulling at the fabric.

  
The friction causes Armie's hips to jerk forward a bit, and he has to steady himself with one hand on the back of the couch next to them and the other grasping Timmy's hair.

"Fff, Tim... _Timmy_..."

  
Timmy nudges at the waistband with his chin, wanting and searching desperately for skin on skin contact, the smooth yet grainy fabric a seemingly insurmountable obstacle without the use of his hands. Armie makes a groan from deep within his chest and makes no move to make the job easier for Timmy.

  
He readjusts his knees to sit closer to Armie and uses his head to nudge the fabric of the bottom of the tracksuit jacket out of the way, until he can see the soft and hairy skin of Armie's stomach above the waistband, the trail of hair leading down to where he wants to go. Timmy places his lips just above the waistband, on the skin where stomach meets hipbone and places a loud, wet kiss right on that spot, earning him a satisfied noise from above. Armie's grip in his hair loosens until his hand is cupping and gently holding the back of his head.

  
Timmy grabs the edge of the waistband with his front teeth until he has a good grip, then bites and pulls out and down, revealing his reward - the dark pink head of Armie's dick poking up, straining and leaking against his skin. Timmy stays like that for a moment, black fabric in his mouth and arms restrained behind his back and he stares at Armie's beautiful cock and up at the drunk, unbelievably sexy man it belonged to and Timmy moans desperately through his mouthful of fabric.

  
Armie finally gives a helping hand, taking the waistband of his trousers out of Timmy's mouth and pulling them down, out the way and letting them fall to pool around his toned legs.

  
Timmy lets his head fall forward, bracing his forehead against Armie's left thigh and he blows a few puffs of hot, humid air onto his cock, sending a shiver down Armie's spine down to his toes. "GodfuckTimmy, _shit_ ," Armie groans between clenched teeth, his knees trembling just enough to earn a wide grin from Timmy. "Will you fucking suck my dick already, fuck."

  
Timmy happily obeys, pursing his lips to kiss just the head of Armie's cock before letting his lips slide down over it and taking him in all the way down, using his tongue to draw a zig-zag pattern on the underside it on the way back up again, pulling his lips off with a loud, obscene wet pop. Timmy lets the saliva gather in his mouth before slowly letting the spit drip from his lips onto the tip, mixing with a few, clear drops of precome.

  
He takes Armie in his mouth again, paying special attention to the slit of his cock, the precome and his own saliva tasting like salt and sex and Armie. He lets his tongue swirl around the edge of the tip a few times, earning a small cry from Armie followed by a breathy and slightly agonous laugh. Sucking deeply, he takes Armie in and onto his tongue again, fucking his own mouth on his cock and making earnest little moans with every bobbing head motion.

  
Armie groans a mantra of " _Timmy_ " and "fuck" and "mmmhuhh, _yeahh_ ".

  
Timmy lets Armie deep throath him, his cock hitting the very back of his throat and both of Armie's hands are in his hair now, gripping his head and Timmy can barely move, arms straining and aching behind his back, his breaths coming in stutters through his nose against Armie's dark blonde pubic haired crotch as Armie keeps him there, still, and Timmy chokes once - twice - around the warm, thick length down his throat before Armie slowly guides his head back. Timmy's eyes are watering and his cock is straining against his boxer briefs, too tight, too hot, fuckin' velvet pants and he looks up at Armie, his too-long hair disheveled and falling into his eyes and his mouth open and panting, his bottom lip blood red and spit-slick.

  
Armie sucks in a breath between clenched teeth. "I wanna... comeinyourmouth," he says, the last half of the question a long, barely understandable drawl.

  
Timmy has never been so aroused in his life.

  
He nods up at Armie, blinking slowly with long, dark eyelashes fluttering shut between sweaty, equally dark curls, letting his tongue linger out on the edge of his now plump and slightly swollen bottom lip. Armie brings both of his large hands back into Timmy's hair, pulling it out of the way in the same motion and then letting his right hand grab the base of his cock, pumping it slowly, then faster, the head of his cock just barely inside Timmy's open mouth.

  
"Godfuck, Timmy... _Ughn_ , Timmy..."

  
Armie comes, hard and fast, his entire 6'5" muscular body bending over as ripples of pleasure seek out every nerve ending in his form, warm spurts of come shooting into Timmy's mouth, on his cheek, on his lips and dripping in quick droplets onto his chest. Timmy lets his tongue roll slowly on and around the head of Armie's cock as he pumps it until the last drop, Timmy's pink tongue lapping it all up and licking his length clean, swallowing while his eyes are closed in rapture.

  
"Shit..." Armie mutters, taking a trembling step back to steady himself, his wet and veiny cock laying spent in his hand, his head leaning back and breathing heavily. Timmy opens his eyes and is reminded of his own cock at the sight of an unsteady, spent and sweaty Armie, his abs glistening in contrast to the black tracksuit jacket.

  
"Boy did I fucking miss the shit outta you, Timmy," Armie exclaims, smiling down at him. "Uh-huh," Timmy nods, impatiently.

  
Armie chuckles and steps out of his discarded tracksuit bottoms and leans down to lift Timmy to his feet. He leans over the younger boy and gently kisses him for a long time, tasting Timmy and himself and salty sweat on his tongue and lips. Armie kisses away a few remaining come droplets on his cheek. "So," he begins with a chuckle, grabbing the end of the belt still wrapped tightly around Timmy's arms. "On or off?"

  
Timmy sways a bit on his feet before he grins wide and happy.

 

***

 

 _8:02 a.m._  
Rise and shine

 _8:05 a.m._  
Yo. Pancakes?

 _8:07 a.m._  
brb

 _8:15 a.m._  
I got you pancakes.

 _8:16 a.m._  
Aspirin

 _8:17 a.m._  
Fuck

 _8:17 a.m._  
Come back to bed

 

Armie throws his phone away, groaning underneath the covers, dreading the onslaught of inevitable sunlight, but when he peeks out all the curtains in his hotel room are shut. He hears the sink running in the bathroom, and on the table next to the lion's foot couch they started fucking on last night was a small array of brown paper bags and two white coffee cups.

The sweet smell of pancakes and coffee drifted toward him and he let out a relieved sigh at the fact that the smell didn't make him want to vomit. He looked at the night stand, holding a glass of water and a pack of painkillers. He smiled, sat up a little - groaned, and fell back down onto the pillows.

The sink shuts off and the bathroom door opens and shuts, and Armie hears bare footsteps walk across the ornate floor and then the sound disappears as Timmy steps onto the plush carpet.

  
"I kinda get it, you know?" Timmy's voice is a bit hoarse, but he sounds annoyingly chipper and in excellent health.

"What?" Armie groans, face down in a pillow.

"The tracksuit, dude. I get it now." Armie lifts his head up slightly toward Timmy, but not too fast, his brain swimming on a stormy sea of its own. He blinks at Timmy, wearing his black Adidas tracksuit.

  
Armie grins, despite his pounding head and swimming vision. It was too long and too big on Timmy, but he had rolled up the sleeves and the cuffs and paired it with a backwards matching black and white Yankees cap and dark sunglasses, curls peeking out and shit, if it wasn't the most adorable fucking sight to behold.

  
Crawling up on the giant hotel bed next to Armie and losing his cap in the process, Timmy plonks his head on Armies’ shoulder.

"Shit's comfortable as fuck."

 

***

 

**Author's Note:**

> [callmetimothee](https://callmetimothee.tumblr.com/) @ tumblr, come say hi! casually inspired by [this](https://corcordiumm.tumblr.com/post/170238932817/what-do-you-find-annoying-about-each-other), [this](https://callhimarmiehammer.tumblr.com/post/170760483477/armie-hammer-attends-lofficiel-hommes-usa-launch), [this](https://cashtonssolangelo.tumblr.com/post/170745384713/armie-and-his-friends-wore-tracksuits-to-a-black), and definitely [this](http://littlelovebomb.tumblr.com/post/170688148986/armie-x-timmy).


End file.
